


ease my aching head

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Bad Spanish, Concussions, Frottage, Hand Jobs, In Media Res, M/M, Not Beta Read, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-injury, not quite established relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 01:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10865901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: The world is still spinning overhead, dipping and swaying. Like being on a raft and looking up at the swaying, twinkling stars overhead. Salt-air whipping against sun-warm skin.





	ease my aching head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blastellanos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/gifts).



> I’m gonna jettison myself into outer space now. 
> 
> I'm not a fluent Spanish speaker by any means, so if I messed up somewhere please drop me a line. Also it's left deliberately untranslated but if that bugs anyone I can add them in.
> 
> Title from "Where I Belong," by Bad Company.
> 
>  **ETA:** I don't really consider this "infidelity fic" in that it doesn't deal with cheating at all, but wives/families get a brief mention. If you want, you can choose to believe they're all in open relationships/the cheating is consensual.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

José’s ears ring with the pealing of bells, and his head throbs in rhythm with his heartbeat— _th-thump-th-thump-th-thump_ —as he lies face-first in the baseline. His head feels soft and achingly tender where the baserunner—he can’t remember the guy’s name—clipped him with his knee. When he presses his fingers against the rapidly swelling knot on his jaw, the skin there is hot to the touch. Someone yanks at the back of his jersey, pulling.

“Iggy, hey man, you all right? C’mon.” Kinsler, sounding insistent, tugs again at the back of his jersey.

José lifts his head for a moment and immediately drops back down as a wave of nausea sweeps over him. The world is still spinning overhead, dipping and swaying. Like being on a raft and looking up at the swaying, twinkling stars overhead. Salt-air whipping against sun-warm skin. 

“C’mon, c’mon.” Kinsler sounds too loud, too close. Too concerned.

José wants to tell him it’s fine, he’s fine; instead he just clenches his jaw against the throb in his skull. 

Eventually—it’s probably just a handful of seconds that seem like impossibly long hours—the rolling and swaying in his head stops, and the trainers move their hands away from the back of his neck to brace his back. 

“One, two, three, _hup_ ,” the trainer closest to José encourages him, and together, the three of them get José onto his knees.

It all washes over his head like a wave again and he feels like he’s being pulled away by the undertow. José reaches out, fisting a hand in the trainer’s sleeve for a moment, steadying himself, before it passes. His stomach takes a tumble like he did over second base. José can still see the trajectory of the ball as it comes out of his hand, skipping across the dirt like a stone across clear water. Then a knee is coming up into his face and his vision suddenly explodes in red and black. 

When José lifts his head, Kinsler and Castellanos are watching him with furrowed brows, hands resting on their hips. K-Rod stands a little off to the side with Cabrera, looking absolutely gutted, and José isn’t sure if it’s because of the way they lost or the knee he took to his head. Beyond them, José sees McCann watching him too, with narrow eyes. 

A flame of defensiveness flares up like a match being struck, but it gutters out quickly enough. He shouldn’t have tried to turn the double play, he knows that now, but everything happened so fast. One moment he was on steady ground, Kinsler’s relay landing securely in his glove, and the next he was stumbling and falling, everything around him blinking out for a fraction of a second.

Now he has a pulse of pain in his head, sand in his hair, and grit in his eyes. There’s the hint of copper at the back of his throat, and he realizes he bit the inside of his cheek at some point. When he tongues at the raw spot in his mouth, it stings.

“Easy does it,” one of the trainers says when José tries to pull out of their grasp. 

“How you feeling, big guy?” Kinsler claps José gently on the back.

José rolls his shoulders and catches McCann still watching, still judging him. Probably thinking he should have put it in his back pocket. Not even made the throw at all. 

“ _Más o menos_ ,” José mutters darkly, shaking the dirt out of his hair.

Kinsler gives the back of his neck a light squeeze. “That one’s on me—” Kinsler starts to say, but José waves him off.

“Is fine,” José says, wincing when he catches an eyeful of the LED scoreboard ribbon that rings the stadium. The flashing sets something off in his head, another bone-deep ache. 

“Let’s get you into the trainer’s room.” The trainers usher José out of the infield, Kinsler and Castellanos trailing not far behind. 

“Just a little woozy. Is nothing,” José insists.

“ _Más vale prevenir que lamentar, acere._ ” Castellanos gives José a one-armed hug around the neck before bounding away, Kinsler at his heels.

José slaps some dirt off his pants and allows the trainers to lead him to the dugout. McCann meets him by the lip of the dugout and braces a hand against José’s elbow, as if he’s going to help guide him down the concrete steps. José tries hard to school his expression and not show the surprise that sparks in his chest. 

He and McCann are cordial, but not exactly friendly. Not since an oppressively hot night in August, a couple years ago. McCann getting in José’s face about his style of play had nipped any friendly feelings in the bud. 

“I got it from here,” McCann says, waving the trainers off.

“We’ve gotta get him to the trainer’s room for tests, Mac.”

McCann doesn’t budge. “Really, it’s not a big deal, fellas. I can handle it.”

José lifts his head; the trainers glance at one another and simply shrug, before passing him off to McCann. McCann’s hand is big and warm as it grasps at his elbow. José’s feet get tangled in one another and he starts to slip down the steps, and McCann catches him by the arm just before he stumbles.

“How’s the noggin,” McCann drawls as he helps José right himself.

José flips a hand in the air, over their heads. “Whoosh.”

“Huh,” McCann says, as he leads José into the narrow hallway between the dugout and the visitor’s clubhouse. 

“ _Poco loco_ ,” José adds. 

McCann just grunts and urges him along.

José lets McCann lead him to into the clubhouse and past the curious stares of their teammates, to a lumpy old couch at the very back. It feels like it was tucked in at the last minute, nothing more than an afterthought, all misshapen and mismatched. José collapses on it and tilts his head back, eyes slipping shut.

He can make out the concerned murmurs of his teammates.

McCann settles on the arm of the couch and José lets his eyes flutter back open. He’s still in uniform, plastic shinguards dangling from his legs. He’d discarded his chest protector and helmet at some point. His brown hair is damp and sticks to his forehead in clumps.

“How many fingers am I holdin’ up?” McCann waves his hand in front of José’s face.

“How many am I?” José flips him off lazily before letting his hand drop into his lap.

McCann swipes at José’s hand. “How long you think they’ll keep you?” he asks. “Some of us were gonna go out, grab a late dinner.”

José lifts a shoulder in the hint of a shrug. “Dunno. Could take all night.”

“I’m sure it won’t take all night,” McCann says, rolling his eyes. He sweeps a hand through his stiff hair and pushes it off his forehead. “Your wife and kid in town? Could bring ’em along. Bunch of the girls are comin’ out too.”

José sighs at the mention of wives and kids. “Not this trip,” he admits, reaching up to press against the tender knot on his jaw. The pain nearly brings tears to his eyes but he wills them back into his tear ducts. “They back home. Too much back and forth. José Jr. get homesick a lot.”

“Jess’s back in Detroit,” McCann says slowly, offering up this bit of information like it’s a savory little morsel. “I could hang around here. They’re probably gonna want someone to keep an eye on you anyway.”

“Boy scout,” José mutters, flicking his gaze away to a bare white wall. There’s a black smudge on the wall, marring its perfection, like someone kicked it in a moment of anger.

“So, whaddaya say?” McCann nudges at José’s ankle with the toe of his cleat. 

José kicks him on the shin. He slouches deeper into the cushions and resists letting his eyes slip shut. “ _¡Cómo que no!_ ”

“Speak English,” McCann snipes, kicking back. “You know I don’t understand Spanish.”

“ _Come lo que pica el pollo._ ”

McCann sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “You’re just doin’ this to be an asshole.”

José pulls himself upright and scrubs a hand through his hair. Grains of sand fall away, land on the front of his jersey. He brushes them off. “Maybe.”

“I’ll see you later, then, after they check you out.” McCann nods to the approaching fleet of trainers and medical staff. He reaches out and clasps José’s knee, letting his hand linger for a moment too long before slipping away.

José watches him retreat, then turns to the trainers and medical staff with a resigned sigh.

***

José gets back to his hotel room way too late, still a little fuzzy-headed, with some painkillers in a paper cup. He drops his jacket on the floor, snaps on the lights, and immediately regrets it. His whole head, not just his jaw now, throbs painfully. José kicks the door shut with his heel and turns the lights off. 

After choking down a pill and chasing it with some water from the bathroom sink, he strips out of his shirt and pants and crawls into bed. The mattress is as hard as a rock and the pillows are lumpy and uncomfortable. José rolls onto his back, laces his fingers over his chest, and stares up at the ceiling. The doctors had told him to have a teammate stay with him and keep an eye on him through the night, but they’re either all out enjoying a late dinner or they’re holed up with their wives and kids. 

José glares down at his phone hatefully, sets his alarm just to be safe, and drops it on the nightstand with a thunk. 

There’s an answering knock on the door and José groans, letting a bare arm flop over his face for a moment. 

José mutters into his arm, “ _Vete._ ”

The knocking resumes, growing more insistent, more obnoxious. José considers ripping off one of his shoes and chucking it at the door. Maybe it’s a team doctor, here to make sure he hasn’t drowned in his own vomit or something. 

“They sent me to check on you.”

McCann. José frowns and sits up slowly. Takes in his state of undress with a weary sigh. 

José climbs out of bed, steps over his carelessly discarded clothes, and opens the door. McCann stands in the hall, his fist raised, poised to knock again.

“ _¡Vete pa' la pinga!_ ” 

McCann lowers his hand. “What?”

José steps back and waves a hand at McCann, motioning for him to come in. “Is nothing. Come, come. You letting the light in.”

McCann steps in, pausing in the doorway. He’s standing very close, close enough that José can see the nicks on his chin and the wet strands of hair that cling to the sides of his face. José catches a whiff of expensive cologne that causes his gorge to rise. 

José drops his eyes to one of McCann’s hands, which rests against his thigh. The pointer finger is taped up; José doesn’t remember him catching a foul tip in a funny place during the game. He brushes his fingertips over it lightly, before stepping aside and letting McCann pass.

McCann shrugs off his jacket and drops it over the back of a rickety wooden chair shoved into the corner of José’s room, then pauses to look around and survey the wreckage. His eyes fall on José’s shirt and pants crumpled on the floor, then glances up at José and lifts his eyebrows.

“Little early for bedtime, huh?” McCann quips, as he unbuttons his sleeves and rolls them up a bit, exposing his forearms. 

José turns and closes the door behind him. He’s wearing boxers, but feels naked under McCann’s assessing gaze. “I was no expecting guests.”

“I said I was gonna come by later,” McCann scolds. 

José hears the sound of bottles clinking and he turns. McCann is digging around in the minibar, comes up with a little bottle of apple juice. 

“Didn’t think you were serious,” José says, toeing resentfully at his pants.

McCann gives José an unimpressed look before twisting the cap off the apple juice and taking a long pull, Adam’s apple dancing. José looks away again and forces McCann’s throat and bare forearms out of his mind.

McCann’s arms are strong, and the line of his throat is enticing.

It’s the concussion. José is sure it’s the concussion. It cannot be anything else.

José picks up his clothes and dumps them on the bed, dumping himself in after them. He rolls onto his back and studiously ignores McCann and his forearms and his wet mouth. There’s a smear of wetness at the corner of his mouth that José specifically avoids looking at.

McCann shuffles away from the minibar, over to the end of José’s bed. He stands there, bottle clutched in hand, and just…looks down at José. Maybe he’s thinking how he should have made a better decision than come back here to babysit a teammate with a concussion. Maybe he’s thinking he should have stayed out with the boys or found a girl to bring back to his room or Skyped with his pretty wife.

“Take a picture, it last longer,” José grumbles, finally rolling onto his side and patting the empty space next to him.

McCann’s eyebrows shoot up, but he tests out the give of the mattress with one knee before crawling onto it and settling on his back next to José. 

“Give me.” José pries the bottle out of his hand, mindful of his cool, damp fingers, and sets it on the nightstand. 

McCann turns his head a little bit, forehead grazing José’s thigh. “Feelin’ any better?” he asks.

José squints at the sliver of light peeking out from under the door, zeroes in on it so that he doesn’t have to notice McCann’s forehead pressing against his thigh. “ _Un poco_.”

McCann scoots up and props himself up on his elbow. His brown hair’s sticking up in a hundred different directions and José wants to push it back down, smooth it with his thumbs until it’s in its proper place. 

“No Spanish tonight, man. I told you—”

“You been around long enough, play with _Cubanos y Venezolanos y Dominicanos_. You no pick up any Spanish?” José chides.

“I know all the important stuff. _Jonrón_ , _bateador_ , _lanzador_ , _cachear_ ,” McCann says, aggressively ticking the words off on his fingers.

His accent is terrible.

José rolls his eyes and punches him in the chest. “Nothing. You don’t know nothing.”

McCann pushes José’s hand off his chest and wraps his fingers around his wrist, squeezes gently. “You wanna say that again to my face?” he asks, and if he wasn’t smiling a little bit José would take the words as a threat.

Also, McCann wouldn’t be foolish enough, reckless enough to hit a teammate with a concussion, no matter how annoying they’re being.

“I could teach you,” José says, twisting his wrist out of McCann’s grip, “but too expensive for you.”

McCann’s cheeks flush a pretty shade of red. José is pleased with himself for that. For some reason.

“What? You think you’re too high class for me?” McCann says, almost defensively. José snorts.

“ _Soy demasiado bueno para ti._ ” José flicks at the buttons of McCann’s shirt. 

McCann furrows his brow and lifts his hand like he’s going to knock José’s hand away from his chest. “ _C’mon_ , man. What’s that mean? You could be makin’ fun of me and I wouldn’t even know.”

“Me? I never do that.” José pulls his hand away.

“Good, ’cause that’d be kinda shitty of you.” McCann touches the bump on José’s jaw, pushes at it a little bit. “Still hurt?”

José turns his head away from McCann’s hand. “When you do that, yes,” he snaps, knocking his hand away.

“All right. Sit tight.” McCann gets out of the bed and goes back to the minibar. José watches his back while he roots around and returns, holding a Ziplock back of crushed ice. He settles back down next to José and presses it gently against José’s jaw.

“Cold,” José says stupidly. Of course it’s cold.

“Good.” McCann keeps his hand over the bag. 

José thinks he sees the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Feels better,” José admits, reaching up, covering McCann’s hand, holding the bag in place. It won’t slip with both their hands to hold it up.

“As long as you feel better. ’s all that matters,” McCann says, his tone deepening, softening. Not all sharp, polished edges now.

Maybe he’s getting tired too. José should let him go back to his room. He probably hasn’t even had time to Skype with Jessica yet, like he always does on the road.

“ _Gracías_ ,” José says softly, waving at the Ziplock bag with his unoccupied hand. “I feel it going down a bit already, the swelling.”

“Mhm. You ain’t gettin’ rid of me that easily,” McCann scoffs. “Gotta make sure you don’t puke on yourself in your sleep.”

“Not gonna puke on my sleep.” José sighs.

“You don’t know that.” 

“Guess I wouldn’t, if I was sleep,” he admits.

McCann grins at him and taps his index finger into the center of José’s chest. “See? I was right.”

José doesn’t say anything to that, just lets McCann think he’s won. 

They both settle back, sinking into the pillows next to each other. Wet from the Ziplock bag drips down the side of José’s neck. McCann’s fingers pressing against his skin, cool like ice. José is suddenly very aware of McCann lying next to him, cold, damp fingers resting lightly on his aching jaw. Warm breath blowing in little puffs against his neck.

José wants him closer, isn’t sure how to articulate that. All the words he has in his vocabulary to ask for what he wants are in Spanish. _Tocame. Bésame. Jódeme._

No, he doesn’t know how to ask for this in English. And he knows McCann would never give him what he wants. 

José heaves a sigh. He feels McCann shift next to him, move a little bit closer, shoulder bumping up against José’s. When he turns his head, McCann’s watching him, the makeshift ice pack having found its way into his hand. 

“What?” José asks, blinking owlishly at him.

“Nothin’.” McCann leans over José, a warm, steady weight pressing down on him a little bit, to drop the Ziplock bag on the nightstand with a sloshy thump. 

McCann’s cologne tickles at José’s senses and the buttons on his shirt press into his bare chest. José hopes they leave little marks on his skin like tiny teeth. Without really thinking much about it, he brings a hand up and lets it rest over McCann’s ribs. He’s not even touching him, really, hand barely hovering over his side. 

McCann sits back and they look at each other again. José moves his hand to McCann’s chest. 

They are still looking at each other, even though the air is heavy and it feels like they should look away now. 

José’s hand is still on McCann’s chest.

“How, uh, how’s your head feelin’ now?” McCann asks.

“ _Bueno_ ,” José says.

“Now, I know what _that_ means.” McCann smiles a little, just a sliver of perfect white teeth. 

José is very aware of the fact that McCann has neither moved away, nor moved José’s hand from his chest. He pokes a finger between one of the buttons on McCann’s dressy shirt and flicks it open, exposing the little valley between his collarbones. 

José flicks open another button.

McCann props his chin in his hand. “What’re you doin’?”

“So we match.” José tugs at another button and then another, until McCann just cuts to the chase and slides his shirt off his shoulders.

McCann slides his hips away from José and, at first, José’s confused. Then McCann’s hands go to his belt buckle, to the button on his fly. 

“Here, let me.” José reaches for him.

“What.” McCann squeezes his hand hard enough to grind bone on bone.

“Was gonna help,” José says.

“Oh.” McCann lets go of his hand. “Okay.”

After a fair bit of maneuvering, they manage to get McCann out of his slacks. He tries to fold them neatly in a square but José rips them out of his hands and throws them on the floor with all of José’s clothes.

José’s feeling bold now, having McCann next to him in nothing but a pair of white briefs. He’s practically giddy with the closeness. José could reach his hand out and touch him, or he could lean in and slide their lips together, push his tongue into James’s mouth. There are lot of things José could do right now. But—

—but his head hurts.

He closes his eyes and keeps his hands—and his lips and his tongue—to himself. 

“Ah, ah,” McCann says, tapping at José’s chin. “Don’t fall asleep on me now, Iggy.”

José wrinkles his nose, eyes still clamped shut. “ _Tengo sueño._ ”

James sighs deeply. “ _José._ ”

José blinks his eyes open. James is close enough to touch, to taste. He could do it. He should do it. Maybe.

James slides a gentle palm over José’s jaw—still tender, still aching—and presses their mouths together. José doesn’t even have time to close his eyes. He sees McCann leaning in to him and then their lips are touching. 

It’s unexpected and yet not.

It’s something, could be everything, and yet nothing at all. 

José doesn’t know what he wants it to be.

If he pushed for more, would James push back? Or push him away?

McCann parts his lips and pushes his tongue into José’s mouth, pushes their hips together. Well, that answers one part of José’s question. He pushes back, grinding almost greedily back against James. 

There’s a moment there where José feels trapped, suspended in time, when James breaks the kiss and his lips hover just inches away from José’s. He waits—for angry words, a bitten off prayer, something sharp and bitter to remind José that this is just a result of his concussion. That this isn’t really happening, he’s just imagining this. He’s imagining the whole thing. James cups his hand over José’s sore jaw, prodding gently at the welt. It’s settled into more of an ache than a pain.

José reaches up and catches hold of his hand, stilling it. “ _¿Qué haces?_ ”

James frowns at him, a line furrowing between his eyebrows. “I don’t—”

“What you doing?” José lets go of his hand.

“I—I don’t know. I thought—” McCann stutters.

“You think what? I don’t even think you like me, then we’re doing this.” José sweeps a hand over the disheveled state of his hotel room.

“I don’t hate you,” McCann says.

“Don’t mean you like me,” José counters, crossing his arms over his chest and jutting out his chin obstinately. Even that makes his jaw ache and he tries to hide a wince with a smirk.

“I don’t think we know each other good enough to like each other,” McCann allows.

José huffs petulantly and pushes McCann off of him. “ _No soy tu puta._ ”

McCann crawls up until they’re lying shoulder-to-shoulder. “Can you tell me what that all means? I mean, I know _puta_ is dirty, had to learn that one to survive Dominican Winter League,” he says, nudging José gently in the side with his elbow.

José ignores him in favor of playing with the chain around his neck, twisting it around his finger. A fancy gold cross and a simple pewter wedding band dangle from the chain and José flicks at them. He watches McCann take a deep breath, but he says nothing, just lets José continue to play with the necklace. There’s an inscription on the inside of the band, so José squeezes the ring between his thumb and index finger and turns it to get a better look.

_I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine._

José nods his head toward McCann and catches his eye, then runs his finger tip over the words. “ _Yo soy de mi amado y mi amado es mío_.”

“ _Yo soy de mio_ ,” McCann parrots, “ _mi amado y mi amado es mío._ ”

“There’s your lesson _en Español para hoy_ ,” José quips, letting go of the chain.

James reaches for him again, catching his arm and pulling him until they’re breathing each other’s breath again. “José,” he says.

“Yeah?” José tries not to expect anything. McCann might want to keep kissing him, or he might call him names and leave. Maybe he might even want to do more than just kiss. 

“Will you—can I—” McCann’s fingers tighten around José’s arm as he struggles to pick the proper words. “Are you okay with this?”

José laughs sharply and McCann pulls back, looking startled. He doesn’t mean to be rude, it’s just absurd. “Are _you_?”

McCann blinks a couple times, then grows pensive as José’s question settles over his shoulders. “I think so, yeah.”

“You even know what you want from me?” José sits up and scratches at his hair. He hardly even notices his jaw anymore. Now it’s just his head that throbs, and he’s not entirely sure if that’s Brad Miller’s doing or James McCann’s. “You come to my room, you kiss me. You. Me, I’m fine.”

“You’re right.” McCann sighs, rubs his hands over his face, and into his short brown hair. 

McCann pulls at hair for a moment before his eyes grow steely, determined. José’s seen that look in his eyes on the field behind the wire cage of his catcher’s mask. He still doesn’t know what to expect. After a moment—some inner war plays out on McCann’s face in the briefest of tics—he slips a hand to the back of José’s neck and pulls him into another kiss. 

This one’s slower and more deliberate than all the others, and something warm stirs in José’s chest. When it breaks and they fall apart for breath—and maybe a helping of good, old fashioned Christian guilt, José’s not sure—McCann lingers, lips pressing against the corner of José’s mouth as he turns his head. José feels his fingers curled loosely in the hair at the back of his neck.

It’s nice. José can’t help but smile.

McCann clears his throat with a manful cough. “When I saw you go down, I, uh, it kinda…” He coughs again.

José grips James by the shoulders and pushes gently until he falls back against the mattress, then he crawls on top. James stares up at him, hands coming to rest on José’s thighs. 

“You were saying?” José prods.

“I, uh,” McCann says.

José grins down at him. “Okay.” 

José’s done this enough times that he knows what he’s doing, what he likes, what other guys like. But he doesn’t know if James has. James is a good Christian boy with a good Christian wife. He goes to church every Sunday, if there’s no game, and if there _is_ a game, he carves out a chunk of quiet time for pre-game Bible study.

But he’s here, in José’s bed. Letting José grind against his cock. Squeezing José by the waist, arching his hips up against José’s. 

It’s nice, but it’s not enough. José wants more. More friction, more heat. More of James’s hands and mouth on his skin.

He feels greedy.

José rocks his hips slowly, and grins a little when James groans and grasps his thighs. The friction is just right, just the right amount of clothing between them, just the right amount of pressure. José lets his eyes slip shut. James’s fingers burn like brands in the meat of his thighs.

After a little bit, James starts rising to meet him, slowly at first. Then he starts matching José’s slightly faster tempo. 

The cotton of José’s boxers starts to chafe after a few minutes of this, though, and he pauses, resting a hand on James’s bare chest.

“These come off,” he demands, gesturing to James’s briefs. 

“Oh. Uh, okay,” James stammers. José slides out of his lap and he lifts his hips off the mattress to tug off his underwear.

Once they’ve both stripped down, José climbs back on top and, with a great flourish, spits into his palm. James watches him with a curious look on his face, eyebrows raised. José just grins and snakes his hand between their hips to wrap around their cocks.

“Feels good this way,” he singsongs, as he starts to move his hand.

James closes his eyes at that. 

José ruts against him, stroking his hand counter to the movements of his hips. The friction is delicious, and José needs more. More friction, more heat. James’s palms move in circles on his back, echoing the movement of José’s hand around their cocks. 

José’s not going to fuck James tonight, but he wonders if he’d let him. He’s pliable under him, surprisingly soft, muttering things under his breath he probably doesn’t think José can hear. José thinks he might let him. But not tonight.

Give him enough, just to leave him wanting more.

José flicks his wrist a couple times, bites gently on James’s neck and tugs at the skin there. James shudders underneath him, fingers digging into José’s thighs.

“You close?” he asks, tweaking one of James’s nipples.

“Y—yeah. You?” James rolls his hips against José’s.

“Wanna see your face when you come,” José says, momentarily abandoning his own pleasure to focus on James’s. 

James’s eyelids flutter. “Oh my gosh.”

José starts to laugh. “ _Oh my gosh_ ,” he repeats, tweaking James’s other nipple. “You’re cute.”

“Shut up.” James’s face goes red.

José decides to be nice and he lets it go. For now.

It doesn’t take him much longer until José’s got James spilling into his hand, shaking under him. José tips himself over the edge with a little bit more friction and a couple quick jerks of his wrist. James is still shivering underneath him when José comes down from his orgasm, hands wandering across his back.

“How’s your head feel,” James asks, hands going still on José’s back.

“Better. You?” José discreetly wipes his hand on the bedsheets.

“Good.” James pushes José off his chest, gently, onto his back. “You should probably get some sleep.”

“Thought you say I shouldn’t,” José says, looking over.

“It was just an excuse,” James says, rolling his eyes.

José slaps him on the arm. “I know that. But still.”

“Yeah, well. Sleep.” James leans in and gives him a kiss. 

“We talk about this later?” José waves a hand over the scant space between their bodies.

“Yeah. Sure.” James sits up and collects his clothes, pulling his shirt on first and then stepping into his underwear and pants.

José curls up with a pillow under his aching head—he wasn’t lying, it does feel better—and starts to drift off. The lights click off and the door opens with a quiet whisper. José lifts his head and makes out James’s silhouette in the doorway for one breath, then the next, before it slips away and the door shuts. 

José puts his head down and goes to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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